“I’m not, I’m just tired,” I mutter, flipping back the covers with a repressed snarl.
“Dove, I know—”
“You know nothing about me! All you know is what you want to see, what you saw when you and my father made that goddamned deal! Leave me alone.”
There’s so much more to say, but not now, not yet. I feel raw and exposed and so vulnerable that dealing with any of this now is not—
“When we get back to the city I’m filing for divorce,” I mutter, getting into bed and turning my back on him.
I’m mad and sad enough that I’m looking for a fight, anything to get rid of this feeling creeping its way through my blood. I let out a mirthless laugh and what feels like a sob when the only reaction I get is the click of the lock and then silence, signaling his departure.
Chapter Thirty Two
Vincent
The flight home is an interminable replay of every moment I’d spent with dove since first laying eyes on her. Not that I revile the memories, no, in fact they’re all I have left as she sits across the aisle, staring blankly out of the little window at her shoulder.
Divorce. The word sends shivers of real dread through me because I know she means it. She wants nothing more to do with me—God, just remembering the pain and horror I’d seen on her face when she’d looked up and seen me sitting in that dingy little diner will haunt me for the rest of my days.
Nothing kills a man quite like the realization that his wife despises him. For me it’s worse because, though dove is not a pushover, she is one of the kindest, most forgiving women I’ve ever met, and the fact that she hates me despite her good nature makes the feeling so much harsher.
My first reaction to her declaration had been denial. I’d wanted to yell the words at her so fiercely I felt my muscles tremble with the effort to keep my mouth shut.
Of course, I’d also wanted to throw her down on the bed and fuck her senseless, just to prove to her that no matter what she says, I know that she still wants me, still needs me, even if just in that elemental quest for sexual satisfaction.
I hadn’t, though, because frankly the thought of hurting her, more than my coldly calculating deal already had, is abhorrent to me. So I’d done what I’d known she needed and left her alone.
That had left me at odds because no way was I walking downstairs and letting everybody know that my own wife can’t stand the sight of me. So I’d done something even worse and gone into her studio, feeling like a thief but unable to stop myself as I peeled back the sheet.
What met my gaze almost killed me, not because it wasn’t absolutely one of the most beautiful pieces of art I’d ever seen, because it was. The canvas was covered in dark splashes of blacks, grays, and charcoals.
Dark storm clouds filled the top half, alluding to a tempest above, while a man walked in the distance, merely a black dot on the horizon.
I’d assumed—no, I know that the man is me, because in the forefront stands my wife, her shoulders slumped, one lone tear coursing down her pale cheek.
That canvas had told me, even if she never did, of the love she feels and how heartbroken she’d been by my betrayal.
How much worse must she feel now, after she’d walked in on Beau and me discussing something I’d never been that involved with?
I have no answers, can only hope and pray that with enough effort, and if she still holds even the tiniest kernel of affection for me, I’ll find a way to convince her to give me a second chance, to re-gift me with the love I’d taken for granted.
God, when I remember the lust and reluctant need in her eyes when I’d walked into that shower and forced her hand onto my dick it still makes me harder than hell. That is hands down one of the best experiences of my life because I’d seen her, my old dove, for the briefest second before she’d locked me out again.
The only thing to sour that memory is her refusal to let me touch her afterward, something I’d take any day over even my own gratification. God, I miss her taste, her scent, the feel of her warmth melting into me, and I bloody well want it back.
And get it back I will.
***
The only thing more beautiful than springtime in New York is that week just before it yields to the grip of summer’s heat and dark green foliage. I’ve been back in the city for no less than three days now, and despite my convictions to move out and restart my life, I’m still safely ensconced in Vincent’s house, under lock and key.
This should upset me, piss me off, anything but the weird relief I’m feeling…but I can’t muster up the bitterness when I think of the eerie feeling of being watched that I’d experienced the moment I’ stepped off the plane.